


Stop the Pigeon

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, one wouldn't believe the way partnerships are formed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop the Pigeon

“Hallo, Major.”

Cowley looked up from the papers on his desk to see Charlie at the door. “What have they done now?”

Charlie grinned, pushed the door open and revealed a tray with tea pot, cup, and slices of fruit cake. “Oh, nothing like that, sir. Just saw you were working late and thought I’d bring you a little something.”

“Ah, and most welcome it is, too.” He moved the papers and Charlie set the tray down. “Surely you brought a cup for yourself?”

Charlie looked at him sideways, with a bit of a smile. “Well, sir, I did bring me own. But I didn’t want to intrude.”

“No intrusion at all. Bring that chair up. I could use a break.” It was close to midnight, but he had wanted to get the reports finished. And he still had to decide what to do about the new teams. He watched as Charlie added his own cup to the tray, then busied himself with the tea. “Is everything going all right for you, Charlie?”

“I can’t complain.” Charlie poured just the right amount of milk into Cowley’s cup. “Here you go, sir. Cake?”

“Yes, please.” Cowley took a reviving sip of hot tea. “It looks homemade.”

Charlie gave the largest slice to Cowley. “It is. Made fresh this morning. It’s me mum’s recipe. She’d be pleased to know I still make it.”

Cowley sat back in his chair. “You’ve never married.”

For a moment, Charlie’s hands paused at their task. “No, sir.” He then put milk and sugar into his own mug. “Never felt the urge, you might say.” His eyes were on his mug as he stirred.

“I see.”

“Anyway, I get along quite well on my own. I have you to thank for a lot of that, of course.”

“Och, a word here or there. I’ve benefitted from your availability.” Charlie’d served with him in the war, run into him again in Cambridge, and looked after his flat while he’d been in Korea. Cowley had only seen him occasionally after that, but was glad to be able to offer him a job as general handyman/caretaker when he organised CI5. Charlie could turn his hand to just about anything.

They sat in silence for a while, the comfortable silence of old comrades. Cowley felt some of his tension ease. “What do you think of the new recruits?” His first batch after the Wakeman debacle.

“Good lads, for the most part.” Charlie chewed for a moment. “You’ll have a job on your hands with that McKay.”

“Aye.” Cowley sighed. He’d taken on Tommy McKay after a word from Jack Craine, who’d helped in his rehabilitation after the bombing. He had a definite need for men like Tommy, but he wouldn’t be able to partner the man. He had considered Doyle, but…”

“I could tell you a tale about two of them, if you want.”

“Oh, yes? They haven’t been causing trouble, have they?”

“Nah. Some of them don’t even notice me, do they?”

Cowley frowned.

“They’ll learn. That Lewis now, he always speaks nicely to me. Some of the others do as well. I can tell you which get points for observation and which don’t.”

“I should make that part of the assessment.”

“But these two—Bodie and Doyle’s their names.”

Cowley raised his eyebrows. “Those two! They’re like chalk and cheese. I hadn’t thought they’d met.”

Charlie nodded. “Did their inductions at different times, and then off on separate training because of their backgrounds, right?”

“You’re well-informed.”

“Took an interest, didn’t I?”

Cowley wrapped his hands around his cup, and eyed Charlie. “Tell me what sparked your interest.”

“Well, this was a couple of days ago. And, as happens sometimes, there was a bird in the building.”

“A bird.”

“A pigeon, to be exact, sir. They get in now and again, you see, and they cause a right mess.”

“I can imagine.”

“So, it’s important to get the bird out again as quickly as possible.”

Cowley took a sip of tea. “Before anyone shoots it.”

“Exactly, sir. Men being boys, as they will.”

“Thank you for preserving my walls, Charlie.”

Charlie nodded. “As I was saying, sir, there was a pigeon in the rest room.”

“How the devil did a pigeon get in the rest room?”

“A window had been left open. You remember it was a hot night? I walked in, starting my day, and found Doyle there, drinking tea. ‘Watch out, there’s a bird in here,’ he says, sipping his tea. Didn’t even look up from the paper he was reading. ‘Not again,’ says I, used to the routine. ‘Fraid so,’ he says. ‘I opened the window wide, but he doesn’t seem interested.’

I located the pigeon. He had got into a package of biscuits. Chocolate digestives, I think they were.”

Cowley took a bite of cake. “Doyle hadn’t seen fit to take the biscuits away?”

“They weren’t his, you see.”

“I see. Please continue. When does Master Bodie come into this?”

“Well, I made an effort to direct the pigeon to the window, but I reckon he thought he’d found heaven with those biscuits. Still, with judicious use of a broom handle I was able to get him moving. Only that was worse, in a way. Doyle had very thoughtfully closed the door during all of this. It was Bodie who opened it.

“‘Shut the door, there’s a bird,’ says Doyle when Bodie comes in. ‘I beg your pardon?’ says Bodie. He was a mite haughty, I will say. Well, he was dressed to the nines—had an appointment with you, sir, I do believe?”

“Ah!” Cowley smiled to himself. “Yes, he did. He was wearing a shirt and tie, as I recall. No jacket.”

“Yes, that happened later. Anyway. ‘A bird, you moron,’ Doyle says.

He’d been on one of Mr Martin’s all night excursions. In retrospect, it might be understandable Bodie assumed Doyle was an intruder. Moves very fast, does Bodie, when he’s of a mind to.”

“Sometimes before thinking, yes.” Cowley’s voice was acidic.

“While they were grappling with one another, I managed to get the door shut again, and set the lock.”

“A wise precaution. Who won the fight?”

“It was a draw. The bird took exception to a chair being knocked over and flew across the room. Unfortunately, he didn’t go out the window. ‘What the hell is that?’ Bodie asks. ‘The bird, you—‘ Well, Doyle didn’t finish that. He broke free of Bodie and climbed to his feet. ‘Oh. That’s what you meant,’” says Bodie, also getting to his feet. ‘Who are you?’

‘Ray Doyle. CI5.’

‘I’m Bodie. Also CI5.’

They sized each other up right then and there. Didn’t seem very impressed with one another. ‘New man, aren’t you?’ they both said at the same time. ‘

‘Copper?’ Bodie then guesses, his tone not very complimentary.

‘Kicked you out of the Army, did they?’ Doyle asks.

‘SAS,’ Bodie puts him right. And then he says: ‘Can’t keep hold of your birds, is that it?’

’Funny,’ Doyle says. ‘Where’d the bloody thing—‘

They found it back at the biscuits. Apparently, they were Bodie’s chocolate digestives. Doyle did find that funny. Well, they teamed up, then; tried to shoo the bird towards the window.”

Cowley set his cup down. “Were they successful?”

“Not so’s you’d notice. The bird flew back and forth a few times. They tried cornering it, but it escaped through their hands. They tried to catch it in the air; they tried to follow it on the floor. Nothing worked, although they did come remarkably close a few times. Good teamwork. ‘Wish I had my gun,’ Bodie says, after they’ve just missed the bird. He was on the floor that time—a misjudged lunge.

‘When we’re agents,’ Doyle says, extending a hand to help Bodie up.

‘We could try the darts….’ They look at each other, and this time they both laugh.

“‘Don’t tempt me,’ Bodie says.

“Doyle snaps his fingers. ‘That’s it!’ he says. ‘We’ll tempt the bloody thing.’ He gets the half-eaten package of digestives.

‘Not my biscuits,’ Bodie protests.

“Doyle looks at the package in his hand. ‘You really don’t want these, mate.’

“Bodie peers over his shoulder. ‘Ah. I see what you mean. Here, give me those.’ He takes the package, walks over to the window and spreads a feast for the pigeon. They back away and, sure enough, the pigeon follows the lure of chocolate. They push it out the window, and away it flies.

‘Brains, not brawn, that’s the ticket,’ Doyle says.

Bodie says: ‘Oh, yeah, Sherlock. Could have thought of that earlier, you know.’

Doyle purses his lips and looks up. ‘Was enjoying meself.’

Bodie shakes his head, and that’s when he discovers the bird has left a memento on his jacket. ‘Hell,’ he says.

Doyle looks it over. ‘Shame.’

‘I’ve got an appointment with Cowley this morning. Dammit.’

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Charlie added.

Cowley waved his hand and Charlie continued: “He then discovered the bird had got his tie as well. Doyle says: ’Thought you Army men had uniforms.’

‘I’m not in the SAS, or the Army, or even the bloody mercen—‘ Bodie swallows his words at this point.

‘Ah!’ says Doyle, ‘Misspent youth, was it?’ Bodie ignores him, frowning as he tries to rub the spot on his tie. Doyle says, ‘Look, I can’t help you with the jacket, but I do know where you might find a tie.’

‘You have a tie?’ Bodie asks. He looks hopeful and dubious at the same time. And Doyle says—“

Charlie suddenly stopped his narrative. He scratched the side of his nose. “Ehm, maybe I ought not—“

“Go on. I admire resourcefulness in my men.”

“Well. Doyle says: ‘I didn’t say it was _my_ tie,’ They look at each other, and…you can see the spark between them.

‘And you a copper,’ Bodie says. ‘Misspent youth?’

‘Something like that,’ Doyle replies. ‘C’mon.’ Off they go, except Doyle turns round. ‘You all right here, Charlie?’ he says, and I sends them on their way.” Charlie smiled. “I take it Bodie did show up with a tie?”

“Oh, yes. Most interesting.” Cowley transferred his cup and plate back to the tray. “Now then, Charlie. I know you well enough to know you’ve something up your sleeve. What is it?”

“I never could fool you sir, could I?” Charlie put his mug on the tray as well. He paused a moment, before he raised his eyes to Cowley’s and spoke. “I reckon you should team those two, sir. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

Cowley tilted his head. “Because they successfully routed a bird?”

“Yes, sir.” After a moment he said: “Give them a chance, eh?”

It was thirty years since Charlie had saved his life, carrying him across country, under fire, after Cowley’s leg had been broken. And in all that time, Charlie had never asked him for anything. Cowley was inclined to trust his judgement.

“Well then, we’ll see if they survive Macklin together.”

“It’ll be the making of them.” Charlie stood, picked up the tea tray. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Charlie. Thank you.” Cowley waited until Charlie had closed the door behind him, then he sorted through the papers he had pushed aside. He found the personnel sheets he was looking for: four-five and three-seven; chalk and cheese. They’d learn from each other, if they survived Macklin. They’d either kill each other, or….

_Give them a chance, eh?_

He wrote a notation on each of the sheets. Then he straightened his papers, gathered his overcoat, turned off the light, and headed home. Alone.

END

_June 2011_

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Discoveredinalj challenge: Discovered When We Met. Many, many thanks to Elizabeth O'Shea for help above and beyond!


End file.
